Cookies and Clairvoyance

by Bailey Cates

  “Well, it makes sense that Randy would be interested in it,” she said. “I don’t know why Detective Quinn can’t see that.”

  I nodded. “Right?” And then I thought of the entry in Bosworth’s datebook. “Say, you don’t happen to know anything about something called the Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon, do you?”

  Her forehead creased. “Nuh-uh. It sounds like something I’d be interested in, though.”

  It did indeed, given her predilection for moon magic. I’d been thinking that it might be an organization devoted to exactly that.

  Malcolm Cardwell’s house was in Heritage Overlook, a newer neighborhood of quite nice but nearly identical homes. Number 618 was a mushroom green split-level surrounded by a big lawn strewn with toys. Two boys and two girls between the ages of nine and three were running through an old-fashioned sprinkler that fanned the air with glittering droplets of water. We could hear their laughter from three houses away. A small park with brightly painted playground equipment took up most of the block across the street.

  Bianca pulled to the curb behind a Ford Expedition with stick-figure stickers of a family of six on the back window. She turned off the engine, and we got out. The strains of a jazz saxophone emanated from the garage, punctuated by the thump, thump, thump of a stand-up bass.

  On the sidewalk, she cocked her head to listen. “I know that song from the radio. It’s a local band.”

  “Unless Ben puts it on at the Honeybee, I don’t listen to a lot of jazz,” I admitted.

  “Well, I do, and that’s the Eclecticats. Whatever his faults may be, Malcolm Cardwell apparently has good musical taste.”

  As we walked up the sidewalk toward the door, the kids abandoned their play and came running over.

  “Hi!” the girl who appeared to be the oldest said. “Who’re you?”

  I smiled. “I’m Katie and this is Bianca.”

  “Oh.” She grinned. “I’m Max. You want to talk to my mama?”

  “Actually, I’d like to see your—”

  The front door opened, and a very pretty and very pregnant black woman came out.

  “Mama!” the little girl yelled. “These ladies want to talk to you.”

  The woman waved her hand good-naturedly and started down the steps. The kids took off for the sprinkler again as Bianca and I hurried to meet her.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, her tone easygoing though there was a soupçon of dismissal beneath the words.

  She thinks we want to sell her something.

  I held out my hand. “I’m Katie Lightfoot, and this is Bianca Devereaux. Your husband is Malcolm Cardwell?”

  The music coming from the garage stopped, then started up again.

  She shook my hand. Her tone was puzzled as she said, “Yes. I’m Suzanne Cardwell.”

  I smiled and gestured toward the squealing kids. “Are all those yours?”

  Suzanne rolled her eyes at the sky, but when she looked back at me they were smiling. “Every one of them.” She patted her belly and laughed. “And another one obviously on the way. Then I think we’ll take a break. Like, forever.”

  So, the stuffed shirt I’d met in Mr. Bosworth’s house had four, going on five, children under the age of nine, and was married to this lovely woman? If there had been a bubble over my head, it would have been filled with scratched-out preconceptions.

  “Oh!” Suzanne said. “You’re not from WVAN, are you?”

  I shook my head. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve been visited by a news crew or two.”

  “News crew? But the interview . . . wait a minute. Is this about what happened to Malkey’s boss?”

  Puzzled, Bianca and I nodded.

  “Oh. Well, that’s different. The band is supposed to be interviewed on television later this week, so I was a little confused.” She shook her head. “Awful what happened to Mr. Bosworth. Just awful. Hang on. I’ll get Malkey.” She turned and strode over to the garage, showing remarkable grace considering how far along she was. She opened the side door, stuck her head inside, and said something.

  The music stopped. Moments later, the garage door rolled up to reveal four men, a keyboard, drum kit, and three brass instruments on stands. At the back, Kensington Bosworth’s private secretary was putting the stand-up bass I’d heard from the street on its stand.

  “Ohmagod,” Bianca breathed. “That’s them. He’s a member of the Eclecticats.”

  Now the reference his wife had made to a television interview on the local PBS station made more sense.

  “Don’t go all fangirl,” I murmured.

  Bianca shot me a look, then stepped forward as Cardwell came out to the driveway.

  “Take ten,” he called over his shoulder. “Lemonade’s in the kitchen. Suzanne? You mind?”

  “Got it,” she said, and hurried after the men who were heading for the house.

  He came over and stopped in front of us. He looked very different from the man I’d met the night before. He wore a ball cap, an Allman Brothers T-shirt, board shorts, and flip-flops. The glasses were gone, too. I suddenly wondered if he’d been wearing the suit and tie because he’d been on the way to a band gig. His whole demeanor away from Mr. Bosworth’s house was different, too, with more of a casual cast to his shoulders and a wry quirk to his lips.

  Then his eyes widened a fraction as he recognized me. “You’re the police consultant from last night.”

  Bianca side-eyed a look my way. I ignored her.

  “We met last night,” I confirmed. “I was—we were—wondering if you’d be willing to talk to us a little about your boss.”

  Chapter 8

  “I already answered the detective’s questions,” Cardwell said slowly.

  “Of course.” I paused to consider what kind of trouble I might get into if he thought I was there on police business. Which, in a way, I was. But not officially. A fine line, indeed. Best to stick as close to the truth as possible.

  I smiled. “Sorry to bother you at home, Mr. Cardwell. But when I saw that collection of Mr. Bosworth’s, I just had to know more about it.”

  “Oh, that stuff,” he said dismissively. “He was fascinated by anything related to the occult. Was always reading up on magic and sorcery and how it’s been used in different cultures through the ages.”

  “You said he was working with a dealer in town,” I said. “Could you tell me who it was?”

  Cardwell gave a little nod. “Caesar Speckman.”

  My lips parted in surprise.

  “Has that souvenir shop How’s Tricks down on the waterfront. You’ve probably seen it.”

  No, but I’ve seen his business card in Bosworth’s Rolodex.

  “Souvenirs? Like for tourists?” Bianca asked.

  Cardwell nodded. “He plays on Savannah being the most haunted city in America. Works with one of the companies that does ghost tours for out-of-towners. His other shtick is cheap magic tricks.”

  “But Mr. Bosworth’s collection was anything but cheap,” I said. “At least from what I saw.”

  “Speckman is savvier than his tourist trap might make you think. He has a side hustle dealing in the kind of thing Mr. Bosworth was interested in.”

  “Did your boss, um . . . you know . . . ?” I twiddled my fingers in a hocus-pocus gesture.

  He understood. “Nah.” Then he paused and looked into the distance as if remembering something. “Well, maybe. I did catch him sprinkling a bunch of salt around in a circle one time. He said it was borax for ants, but it looked like salt to me. Plus, it was in the middle of the room, not around the edges like you’d apply pesticide. Anyway, the way he was acting reminded me of my great-auntie. She was a Gullah root doctor.”

  Bianca and I nodded. The Gullah were descendants of West African slaves who lived along the coastline of South Carolina and Georgia. Many of
them still practiced their own particular brand of witchcraft.

  A shrug. “Anyway, who knows what the old man did when I wasn’t in the house. I was only there from nine to two during the week.” He waved a hand toward the garage, where the other band members were trickling back from the house, lemonade glasses in hand. “Decent hours that made it easy to play music in the evenings and still spend time with my family. The guy could have been trying to raise zombies from the dead, for all I cared.”

  “So, you weren’t close,” I said.

  “He was my boss. I called him Mr. Bosworth, and he called me Mr. Cardwell, and we both called Olivia Mrs. Gleason. He didn’t really need a secretary, to be honest. But he hated technology, and I think he found the idea of someone typing up his letters and putting phone calls through for him nostalgic. I did my job, and he gave me a paycheck.” Cardwell didn’t exactly seem broken up over Bosworth’s death.

  Keeping my tone casual, I said, “Word has it that Mr. Bosworth wasn’t the most generous employer.”

  He frowned. “He was tight with his money, all right. But not very many people are willing to work the shorter hours I am, nor can they operate a typewriter or spend all day away from a computer—or want to. We negotiated a fair wage, and he gave me time off whenever the band was traveling or had a daytime gig.”

  “Mrs. Gleason, the housekeeper,” I said. “Her first name is Olivia?”

  He nodded but didn’t say anything, his expression becoming speculative and then hardening. I had a feeling that he wouldn’t talk to us much longer.

  I suddenly changed the subject. “And just to follow up, Detective Quinn was going to contact Florinda Bosworth to let her know about her brother’s death.” That was probably true.

  Cardwell blinked. “Okay.”

  “He didn’t ask you for her current surname or address? I’ll need that.” Which was absolutely true.

  Looking a little less sure, he shook his head. “Her last name is Daniels, and she lives in Pooler. That’s all I know.”

  “Back to your boss’s collection,” Bianca said. Her Georgia accent was on steroids. “And that statue called Ginegosh. Can you tell us anything about it?”

  His eyes narrowed as he turned toward her. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t. It’s Bianca,” she drawled. “Bianca Devereaux.”

  “And . . . why are you here?” He looked pointedly at me. “In fact, I’m not sure . . .” He trailed off.

  I sighed, but before I could say anything, Bianca took a step forward and held out her hand. He took it automatically.

  She gave him a warm, engaging smile. “I’m here to find out why you accused my friend of murder.”

  He stared at her, then pulled his hand away. “I didn’t accuse anyone of murder.”

  “Oh, but you did. You told the police that Randy Post had an argument with your boss, that he coveted that particular piece of statuary in his office, and that because he had installed the security system, he had to have been the one to break in and kill Kensington Bosworth.” The sweet smile remained on her face the entire time she spoke. “Now, I am ever so curious about what your problem is with Mr. Post.”

  He looked flustered. “I didn’t have a problem with him. I only met him a couple of times.”

  “Then why did you tell the police to arrest him?”

  “I didn’t! I only said—” He glanced at me. “Well, I did suggest that the police speak with him. I thought perhaps he’d know how someone could have bypassed the system he put in.”

  I gave him a look. “That wasn’t the way I heard it.”

  She took another step toward him, and Cardwell took an involuntary step backward. “Well, they did speak with him.” Her tone was still pleasant, yet somehow daggers dripped from the words.

  “Bianca,” I said.

  “For several hours,” she continued. “He is a respected Savannah firefighter, and now he is the main suspect in Kensington Bosworth’s murder, and it’s your fault.”

  Cardwell didn’t look away, and his shoulders became as ramrod straight as they’d been when he’d introduced himself the night before. “No. It’s not my fault. They’re not going to convict him if he didn’t do it. I was right to tell them what I did.” He looked at me. “Listen, I don’t really understand why you’re here. I’m happy to call Detective Quinn and answer any other questions he might have.”

  “No need,” I said brightly. “We’ll let you get back to your band practice, okay?”

  I grabbed Bianca’s arms and turned her toward the car. She tried to pull away, but I didn’t let go. “Come on,” I said in a low voice.

  She gave in, and we walked toward the street.

  “I still can’t see how anyone besides the installer could have gotten past that security system,” Cardwell called after us.

  Bianca whirled around and glared at him. He stood in the middle of his yard, hands on his hips. Behind him, his bandmates had come back out of the garage and watched with interest.

  “Come on,” I said.

  Bianca and Cardwell locked eyes for a long moment, then she turned away and marched to the driver’s side of the Jaguar. She slammed the door and revved the engine. I jumped in, and we roared off.

  “Bianca,” I said when we were a block away.

  Then I saw the tears in her eyes and fell silent. I remembered how I’d felt while I was trying to clear Uncle Ben’s name back when the police had thought he’d killed Mavis Templeton. Instead of berating her for alienating Bosworth’s secretary, I reached over and squeezed her shoulder.

  “Do you think Randy’s home?” I asked. If so, he was probably fast asleep after the night he’d had.

  Bianca glanced at the clock on the dash. “He’s probably at my house by now. He was going to take a nap and then come over before I have to go pick up Colette from art camp.”

  “You mind if I come by and have a chat with him?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “No. I think that would be a good idea.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Bianca’s husband had left her and their young daughter when he found out Bianca had become interested in magic. Since then, she had developed quite a talent for the stock market, a combination of her own gift with numbers and money that she occasionally augmented with a bit of spell casting. She had used some of her growing fortune to start Moon Grapes, her wine shop on Factors Walk, and she had bought a house in Haversham Woods. The upscale neighborhood was in the middle of Savannah, close to downtown, Southside, and the Oglethorpe Mall. Bianca often talked about how quiet it was, and Colette had made a lot of friends in the Woods.

  I admired the mix of traditional and contemporary architecture as we wended down the elegant streets. The homes were larger than most this close to downtown, with big yards and lots of street parking. She pulled into her driveway and parked behind Randy’s car. I paused to let Lucy know where I was via text then got out of the Jaguar. Bianca had already started toward the house, worry coming off her in waves.

  Inside, her home was airy and open, with ten-foot ceilings and lots of windows. The woodwork was meticulous, from the crown moldings to the carved stair banister, and wide heart-pine planks made up the floors throughout. The living room boasted a Tennessee stone fireplace, and double doors opened out to an enclosed patio behind the house.

  Randy, drinking iced tea, sat on the leather sofa. He wore shorts and a wrinkled T-shirt, and his face reflected a deep weariness. His expression brightened as we walked in, though, and he was instantly on his feet and across the room to take Bianca into his arms.

  “Hey, babe,” I heard him murmur.

  She clung tightly to him for a few seconds, then broke away, her eyes glistening.

  Randy looked at me, and his face flushed. “Hi, Katie.”

  I grinned. “Hi.” Then the smile fell fr
om my face. “Sounds like you had a rough night.”

  He nodded. “You could say that.”

  Glancing at Bianca, I said, “So, I don’t know what Bianca has told you about the spellbook club . . . ?”

  “Pretty much everything. At least I think so.” He looked at her, and she nodded.

  She’d told us when they’d had that conversation. Lordy, had she been nervous. I didn’t blame her after what had happened with her no-good husband, and I was glad to see Randy seemed at ease with his new girlfriend’s witchy nature.

  “And about how sometimes I, er, get involved with certain homicide cases with their help?” I asked.

  Another nod. “Uh-huh. Declan has mentioned it once or twice, too, though he doesn’t talk about it with the others at the station.” He licked his lips. “Please tell me that’s why you’re here.”

  I moved over to an upholstered rocking chair and sat down. “It is. I’m sure you’re exhausted, not to mention sick to death of questions, but would you mind chatting for a few minutes?”

  “Not at all.” He went back to the sofa, where Bianca joined him. “I need all the help I can get, Katie.”

  “Well, I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll do what I can. First off, tell me about this argument you had with Kensington Bosworth. Was it just about money, or did the Ginegosh figurine come up?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. I did talk to him about the little statue, but that was a couple of days earlier. It was a perfectly civil conversation. I wanted to know why it was called that, and he didn’t know. He didn’t seem to know anything about it. It was just another piece in his weird collection.”

  I started to bristle at his assessment of Bosworth’s interest in the paranormal, but then had to agree. The collection was all over the place, and even I thought it was odd.

  “Why did that piece in particular grab your interest?” I asked Randy.